This was the place where cutting edge soul music was made through the 60’s and early 70’s. Although I was then too young to be a serious consumer at the time, and, boy, do I wish I had some of those 45’s, Stax artists were the ones I most enjoyed on the radio. Remember the time before FM radio? for me, that meant WFIL in Philadelphia.

Shortly after the early seventies I discovered pot and what was then termed “hard” or “acid” rock. The memories of those wailing saxes and driving rhythms have never left and will always hold a special place in my heart, long after I gave up on Led Zeppelin.

Welcome back, Stax. Looks like everything old is new again and ain’t that just grand?

Gotta run now. I have gardening to do, now that it’s a little cooler outside.

This little beauty has been my constant summer companion for the last few years. It’s my cover-up cover-up on the beach, my lightweight jacket, my robe when walking the dog in my jammies (in summer, tank top or skimpy tee) and loungers.

I can’t even recall where I picked this pot up. In my travels, I tend to buy two things…jewelry and pottery. Earrings are a favorite souvenir. I have dozens of pairs I’ve bought on vacations…Key West, Chicago, San Fransisco, San Diego, Arizona, New Mexico. My souvenir from my Barbados trip last summer was a lovely tanzanite ring in a white gold setting. I wear it almost every day.

I also enjoy pottery, especially if it is unusual. This small pot (probably measures 5 1/2 inches from lip to base…sorry, but that issmall!) is smooth as silk, made of the clearest white porcelain. The thickness is remarkably consistent, all the way to the base. And the glaze…the glaze is to die for! Good reds are hard to come up with, something with the chemicals. My favorite part of pottery in college was mixing the glazes. I was able to let the inner chemist in me play. But red was always so tough to achieve.

See, I really am a very simple person, with minimal materialistic needs, though I do like my car! I am just so damned pleased with the simplest of things.

I’m glad all the brouhaha has died down around here. You know, I will not be able to read my blog stats for a month now that I had 11,000 views in two days! I’m doing a lot of thinking about all that and hope to craft a follow-up, though that will probably wait until over the weekend, after I’ve had a little more time to mull it over.

I stand by my conviction, however, that the better choice would be to to selectively reduce the number of fetuses in a very multiple gestation pregnancy to allow a reasonable chance for long-term survival with quality of life for the survivors. To me, this is the moral, ethical, logical, smartest and “right” thing to do. I do, however, respect the right of others to have a differing opinion. I just wish it could be accompanied with a little less venom on the part of some.

(Addendum to “Things to Take in Case of Fire”: How could I forget? My vibrator. While you’re there, check out the rest of MORGASM.)

What if you were told you had to give up three of your five senses? Which could you stand to do without. Which two would you rather die than never experience again?

I’ve given this a lot of thought this evening, for lack of anything better to do while I do laundry and listen to The World on NPR. I know I could easily do without vision and taste. I’ve come to the conclusion that both are highly overrated, overstimulated and derive far more emphasis than they deserve. Besides, I’ve had my fill of both of them. I don’t mean I’d prefer never to see a beautiful vista or piece of art again but I’ve seen enough sculpture and valleys to have memories aplenty.

And taste? Hasn’t our American gluttony gotten us into enough trouble? Greed for oil. Hunger for more, more and ever more food and the obesity that results from it. I’ve eaten enough succulent strawberries and pumpkin pie with whipped cream to last a lifetime. I sure would miss ice cream but it’s a sacrifice I could make.

The silkiness of a bubble bath. The sting of salt water on my calves. The feel of my skin after I’ve had an Indulgence Day.” Clean, crisp, line-dried cotton sheets on a well-made bed. I don’t know.

The scent of a bakery or pizzeria. The aroma of my lover as we simmer against each other. An old-fashioned rose. A summer rain after a dry spell. Lily of the valley. An infant. What to do?

I just got back from putting my next load of laundry. The rain has come to the Delaware Valley. Thank God, because it put out the fire in the New Jersey Pinelands! It rained hard last evening and a cool front moved in. Today was about perfect, in my opinion…high about 69 F, mostly sunny, clouded over a bit and cooled off nicely as the sun set. I have new hostas and ferns freshly planted and getting a nice, easy drink.

I walked back up from the basement laundry room. The rain was steady but quite light. The ground smelled of gratitude. The rain wasn’t yet heavy enough to penetrate the canopy of the maple tree that shades the walkway to my home. I stood and felt the rain on my face, listened to it gently splatter on the jewel green leaves and breathed deep the scent of the earth as she accepted the first of the offering from the sky.

I would give up sounds, I think. I couldn’t conceive of walking in the world and not feeling that on my skin or to never smell freshly-baked bread. To never feel the sensation of butter melting on my tongue, smell a deep, old forest or feel my grandson kiss my cheek? That would be more than I could bear.

Hell, I’m going to spellcheck and link this post up later. Right now I need to go eat something!

So, I’m doing this quiz on LiveScience. I know it’s lightweight but I just worked the last two days and lightweight is all I can deal with right now, what with a glass o’ wine in me and all. (Yes. I am a cheap date.)

Anyway, I’m taking the sex quiz…myths, taboos and such (Science Lite and sex…such a lovely combination) …and the question is:

Proportionally and compared to other primates, human males have…

And the choices are:

Tiny genitalia

Massive genitalia

About average

Being the kind soul I am and the mother and grandmother of males, I don’t want to suggest the males of my species are deficient in that manner. However, the feminist in me simply cannot grant my male genetic counterparts the superiority of “massive,” now can I? So I naturally click on “about average.”

Guess what? The male of this species has, compared to other primate males, “massive genitalia.”

Whodathunkit?

Maybe there is something to that “superiority of the male of the species” and “Power of the Penis” stuff after all?

So, who’s conducting the research into the relative size of the female genitalia?

Please help me celebrate, at its advent, my mid-life crisis? In honor of the occasion I present Bill Morrissey’s Fifty: (These frigging lyrics are hand-typed, too, so appreciate the fuckers!…I couldn’t find them on a Google search. Will somebody get busy on that out there?)

Fifty

I turned fifty on an autumn (winter) day
The grass was brown and the sky was gray
But I never felt so strong
I turned fifty
So, come on, world, bring it on.

I can’t round the bases like I could
But I’m still in the game, so knock on wood
I get the jump on the pitch and I catch one more
I turned fifty
I quit keeping score

Hey you kids, this ain’t no jive
But I’ve seen the Beatles [Pink Floyd /David Bowie /Chick Corea (Why Scientology, Chick???) ] perform live
My new guitar (garden) is all hand-crafted
I turned fifty
Best of all, I can’t get drafted (I never could get drafted but that a whole ‘nother, long post!)

I don’t get carded in a bar
I (could) own my house and I (do) own my car
I can’t believe I made it this far
I turned fifty
And I still wish upon a star

Once life was a race and I had to run it
Now I know what not to do because I’ve done it
Well, there’s too much anger and too much crap
I turned fifty
I think I’ll take a nap

Sometimes I think about the days back then
But there’s no return in the way-back-when
I loved them all but those days are gone
I turned fifty
So, come on, world, bring it on!

Well, the days are gone, for me, of lovin’ them all back then but I’m still bankin’ on the loving of them in the future. Thanks, Bill.

Come on, world. Bring it on…

P. S. For those of you looking for that perfect gift… (yellow, please?…)

This is a smattering of the stuff I’ve been dealing with over the winter; hence, my hibernation. I doubt I’ll be back much soon, though I do have a draft about what I’ve been up to.

You know, therapy’s got to end eventually, doesn’t it? It does. Doesn’t it?

Posted on an anonymous, private journal of mine, which I’m using as a therapy journal.

My garden is now my self, and my child.

All the diligence I put in to cultivating Michael to be a man of integrity, sincerity, hope is paying off now. He is a fabulous man and a fabulous father. He seems to have my instinct for how to nurture his son while fostering his intellect and his ultimate independence.

I really was very adept at encouraging Michael to be all he can, learn as much as he’s able, investigate as much as he desires. I also taught him, as best as I was able, to respect others, to be open to the world around him. I tried to encourage him to be open to his feelings; he denied any desire at the time but I see how open he is in his relationship with Jen and with his son.

I really did a good job nurturing and cultivating my fledgling to become a real man, a good man. Mostly I listened to my heart telling me all the things I wished I’d received as a child…unconditional love and acceptance, encouragement of my unusual bents, interests and proclivities, exposure to many different things and experiences in the world, being there and (mostly) paying attention to him.

Now he’s done. Not only have I gotten him through college, seen him married and a father, I now see him as a man considering and planning a future with his family. His emotional separation is complete. I have done a good job; no, I have created a masterpiece.

His honesty in our talk following the birthday party. The way he opens his eyes to the 600-pound gorilla, just like his mama, and deals effectively with it, unlike his mama, historically. He’s self-assured enough to be vulnerable, to assert what he wants or needs, to work on an issue pro-actively. What a man!

So, I wash my hands of that task. Except for getting him interested in politics (which might be more successful after he’s done grad school) there’s nothing more to be done there. Now, on to the next project.

My garden.

I’m communing with the earth this spring. I’m listening to her and taking instruction about what she needs here, how I can help there. I’m now talking about putting in a drainage system which will create a (sometimes) water feature through my terraced cut flower and rock gardens. That diversion would meet up with the primary diversion below the ivy-covered stump then trickle down along the half-buried drainage pipe that is (now, thanks to my efforts) carrying the water from the downspout to the creek.

I’m dreaming big and wild this year and the work will be backbreaking but when I’m done, there will be an environment that could be beautifully tended by another special soul or allowed to be swallowed back into nature with lovely surprises springing up in unexpected places at unexpected times.

So, Lisa, who was my salvation, was cut off in the prime of her life and just prior to the start of my own. Lisa the Savior. Lisa, my Out!

I paid my dues…over and over again. I danced the dance like a marionette! Just who did I do the dance for, though? Yes, it was Mom and Dad’s dance, their song, but which was the one I must support?

The weakling. Dad.

Dad’s dead now.

The one I was allied with, the one with whose care I was charged. That one is dead.

The one that was my responsibility is dead.

The other? Is it my duty to save my mother? My brother? Or should the allies continue to dance the dance they choose.

I listen to my own drummer. I dance to my own music. I cannot dance that way any more.

I now dance much more in tune with my child’s music. Well, not his actual music, mind you, but emotionally…you know. Metaphor.

My Garden-Redux

Now I am allowing that incredible capacity I have for nurturing to flow where it will right now and all flow is toward the garden! (Well, there’s a little stuff going on inside too but that’s for another time.)

I speak with the garden, with the water that runs through it, with the perennials I or others before me have planted, encouraging them. I listen to the creek and the earth and the trees and plants as they tell me what they need then I provide it.

I believe I am turning into a serious gardener.

And it’s the yummiest thing I’ve felt yet!

I think I know what I want to be when I grow up. I want to be a woman who gardens. Either tends veggie patches or designs and builds wonderful habitats and stunning masses of natural beauty. I’d love to do any of this professionally but will content myself with being a nurse while I develop into a Master Gardener. Once I retire, all bets are off! I could be an entrepreneur…South Jersey native plant nursery lady. It’s about time!

Something to think about.

Of course, I could adapt that to being the Rochester-area native plant nursery lady if my grandson is growing up in the Syracuse vicinity.

Okay, is the lesson you’ve been waiting for…the one about knowing I don’t have to save the world, I only have to do what I can to make it a better place and I already do that? Oh that happened months ago.

Let’s move back to sex, shall we?

And hypnosis.

; )

So, there’s been a lot on my mind and a lot I’ve been dealing with as well as planning out my fabulous garden and doing random acts of gardening kindness in my community.

The snow lay up against the curb finally beaten by the sun.
Across the street the noon whistle blew calling back everyone.
And they came out from the luncheonette the tavern and the pharmacy
Walked across the wet street back to work their coats unbuttoned and talking easily.
The ice is cracked on the river rolling out by the bay.
On one floe rides a bob house.
Well, there’s always one that stays out too long they say.

There ain’t much to mill work.
The days just drag on and on.
There ain’t much to leaving home till you finally cut the cord and know you’re gone.
And there ain’t much to ice fishing till you miss a day or more
And the hole you cut freezes over
and it’s like you have never been there before.

I threw your keys in the water, I looked back They’d frozen halfway down in the ice They froze up so quickly, the keys and their owners, Even after the anger, it all turned silent, and The everyday turned solitary, So we came to February. First we forgot where we’d planted those bulbs last year, Then we forgot we’d planted at all Then we forgot what plants are altogether And I blamed you for my freezing and forgetting and The nights were long and cold and scary Can we live through February? You know I think Christmas was a long red glare, Shot up like a warning, we gave presents without cards, And then the snow, And then the snow came, we were always out shoveling, And we’d drop to sleep exhausted,And we’d wake up, and it’s snowing. And February was so long that it lasted into March And found us walking a path alone together. You stopped and pointed and you said, “That’s a crocus,” And I said, “What’s a crocus?” and you said, “It’s a flower,” I tried to remember, but I said, “What’s a flower?” You said, “I still love you.” The leaves were turning as we drove to the hardware store, My new lover made me keys to the house. And when we got home, well we just started chopping wood, Because you never know how next year will be, And we’ll gather all our arms can carry, I have lost to February.